Redemption
by Reflection Muse
Summary: Ongoing, original story based on Dragon Age 2 that takes place immediately after the end of the game. The main characters in this story are F!Hawke and Anders, but others will make appearances. Drama, romance, adventure, and a dash of humor are my goals.
1. The Aftermath

**Note from the author:** This is an ongoing, original story based on Dragon Age 2 that takes place immediately after the end of the game. The main characters in this story are F!Hawke and Anders, but others will make appearances (possibly even some original characters). Varric, in particular, plays a large role in this first chapter. I plan to do my _very_ best to stick to and utilize the Dragon Age lore, though I may make take some creative liberties. **BioWare** owns all rights to Dragon Age and associated characters, lore, places, etc. and I could never thank them and their amazing writers enough for being my muse. I'd also like to give a shout out and huge thanks to the amazing Anders fans on the official BioWare community forums. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy my story as much as I have (and will) enjoyed writing it! Reviews are extremely appreciated and welcome!

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><p><em><strong>Redemption<strong>_

**Chapter 1 - The Aftermath**

_"It is only when you fall, that you learn whether you can fly." - Flemeth_

Everyone has a breaking point, and surely this was hers. When Hawke returned to her estate, her ears were still ringing from the blast and the horrible, chaotic clash of magic, metal, and flesh that followed. Never before had she seen such destruction, such pain, such confusion…_such_ _death_. She felt so heavy, so physically and emotionally exhausted, and _sick_ to her very core. Every muscle in her body still trembled and ached from the effort of just staying alive and protecting those who stood beside her, unfaltering, even when they had no reason to.

And then there was Anders…_oh, Anders_. The mere thought of his name unleashed within her the worst torrent of uncontrollable longing, self-loathing, and heartsick pain she'd ever felt. This _betrayal_...she felt like she couldn't breathe. She had always unconditionally supported, loved, and encouraged him, all these years. She knew he wrestled with his own inner demons and convictions (and who _didn't_?), and he had his faults like anyone else, but beneath it all he had always been such a gentle, kindhearted, _good_ man. That's why she fell in love with him. This man she'd shared her life with the past few years, he'd tended to her wounds and her heart, shared countless tender moments and quiet evenings with her, shared her entire world…she _knew_ him. What she saw today wasn't, _couldn't be_, him.

The man she knew, the man she loved, was a _healer_, a protector, someone who treasures, saves, and restores life, not the man she saw destroy the entire Chantry district and all within it today. It went against everything he stood for to kill so many innocents. It was all too surreal—a _nightmare_—how could he _do_ this? _Why_? Was it even him, or was this Justice's doing? How was he even _capable_ of this? Was _she_ the catalyst, or would he have done this regardless? The Champion, for all her heralded strengths and accomplishments, did not feel much like a hero today; she felt herself being pulled in far too many directions to bear. She cursed and slammed her fist down on her writing desk, scattering parchments in every direction. Feeling her frustration rising, she started pacing across the estate's great room in long, purposeful strides.

The frantic, endless stream of questions banging against the inside of her mind like a wild, trapped bird made her head spin. Hawke abruptly stopped pacing and buried her face in her hands, but the visions of mutilated and charred corpses, those horrified, twisted expressions forever frozen on their faces, were burned there. It was dizzying, like flipping through a picture book too fast. She knew it would be quite some time before she would be able to close her eyes and be free of everything she'd stood witness to and played a key role in, today.

Hawke clenched her shaking hands into tight fists and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until all she saw against the black canvas of her closed eyelids were flashes of light. Exhausted, she let out a rasp of a sigh and dropped her arms to her sides. Hawke opened her weary, smoke-stung eyes, and scanned her estate's great room—this may be the last time she had a chance. She was relieved Bodhan and Sandal had already left for Orlais; she didn't need anyone else being pulled into this and placed in danger's path, especially not them. She begrudgingly admitted she also didn't want anyone else to have to see her like this. Her inner voice of reason interjected, interrupting her runaway train of thought, and reminded The Champion that she was doing no one any good just standing there, unmoving, like a discarded, broken doll. She had to pull herself together, so she mustered what little sense and focus she still had left and resorted to what she always did when faced with something she couldn't yet emotionally cope with—keeping her hands busy. She had to pack light, smart, and most importantly, _fast_.

Methodical, swift, and silent, she gathered a small collection of items from the great room and study. Even with trembling hands, her every movement was one of agility, precision, and speed. A small tent, a few blankets, two bedrolls, a simple apothecary kit and vials to mix her potions and poisons, a pouch of various herbs, a few poultices, a collection of tiny throwing daggers, a trap toolkit, some bandages, a tiny leather-bound journal, a whetstone, a waterskin, some tomes and notes scribbled on scraps of paper she had collected around Kirkwall that she hoped may help on their journey, a few small trinkets and gifts, and last but not least, her blades. Anders was, presumably, packing their things from the bedroom upstairs. Anything else she found need or want for, she'd have to gather on the way. Much to her dismay, that task didn't take as long to finish as she'd hoped.

Now left to her own devices again for a few quiet moments, the gravity of the situation was finally starting to _really_ sink in. Hawke folded her arms across her chest and stared blankly at the dancing flames that licked at the cold stone hearth walls, eyes open but unfocused, unseeing, fixated on the turmoil within. Lost in the flashing visions from earlier in the day, she clutched the silver locket around her neck—her mother's locket—so fiercely that angry, red crescent moons were left imprinted on her palm. She felt like she was watching a stranger's life unfold, not her own. _How did it come to this?_ The Champion tried to re-trace every path, every decision, trying to pinpoint where it all began and what more she could have done to prevent the final outcome. Perhaps it was inevitable. It made her head swim and her heart heavy. How did everything go so _horribly_ wrong?

How does one put into words that critical moment when you realize your entire world has collapsed beneath you? That you've lost _everything_? _No, but that wasn't entirely true_, she tried to reason with herself. She hadn't truly lost _everything_. She still had her life and her friends, at least for now, and _him_.

"Oh, _Anders_…" she whimpered to herself, with a frown and a shuddering sigh. How many times could he break her heart before she couldn't remember how to put it back together again?

A wave of…what _was_ it exactly? Desperation? Fear? Anguish? Disbelief? Loss? She couldn't put it into words—there _were_ no words for this—but each time the maelstrom assaulted her, it sent her body and consciousness reeling. She feared she'd be physically ill, faint, or worse. It was all she could do to clench her teeth, bite her tongue, dig her nails into her palms, _anything_ to fight against the stinging that pricked at the corners of her eyes, and will away the overwhelming desire to completely lose herself to it.

The more time Hawke spent wandering the ruined halls within her own head, the harder it was to pull herself back to reality. She hoped he would be there soon. She hated to run away like this. She _never_ ran from conflict. It wounded her pride and went against every fiber of her being, but they had no other choice this time. They needed to go.

An old familiar voice gently cleared his throat from what sounded like only a few steps behind her. How he always managed to sneak in to the Amell estate, she'd never know. She smiled fondly and her heart sank, causing her to hesitate for a moment. How could she face him after everything that transpired earlier that very same day? It already felt like a lifetime ago. This was only the beginning of many things that would not be easy.

Hawke had no misgivings that she looked a wreck. There she stood before her hearth, still in her under-armor, spattered with remnants of their earlier "victory" (truly, it was a _massacre_, and nothing less), with red-rimmed eyes that were no doubt a telltale sign that she wasn't quite as strong as everyone believed her to be. She took solace in the fact that there would be no fooling him even if she wanted to. She could always be herself around him; she'd grown to treasure him for that rare quality. Hawke drew in a deep breath that rattled in her lungs, mustered what ruse of composure she could, and slowly turned to face her old friend.

"Maker's breath! What a story that'll make one day, eh? The Champion of Kirkwall slays the knight-commander _and_ the first enchanter in the same day, and all in time for dinner!" he said with a hearty laugh and sweeping gestures. "Bet you didn't think you'd be doing _that_ when you got out of bed this morning."

She visibly cringed and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don't feel very Champion-like today, Varric."

When he saw the crestfallen, pitifully _miserable_ look on Hawke's face, he realized his mistake. "Sorry, Hawke. Too soon, I guess."

She didn't have the heart or the energy to further chide him for his poor taste in a humor topic right now. She smiled sadly and struggled to find her voice. "Varric…" she whispered, and her voice cracked, "…thank you for coming."

"Hawke, listen…I know you're one for bravado, narrow escapes, and impossible odds, and Maker knows that makes for some _legendary_ storytelling," he said with a playful wink and smirk, "but you _really_ need to get out of here."

Varric walked up to Hawke and took her hands in his, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically serious, brotherly tone before he continued.

"_Please_, Hawke_._ I've bought you a little time by telling the templars that I spotted you and Blondie fleeing toward the docks to catch a ship out of town. It won't take them long to search the docks and outgoing ships, and realize you've given them the slip. You can bet your pretty little head this'll be their next stop. You two _can't_ be here when they do."

"I know…" her voice trailed off as she faltered for a moment and slipped under the rising tide of emotions.

"Varric, I'm _so_ sorry. You all didn't deserve to be dragged into this," she croaked as her throat tightened and she fought back the burning tears that threatened to blur her vision.

"Hey now…," he hushed, "enough of that; you know I can't handle seeing humans cry, especially you, Lady Hope. We all willingly made our choices and sacrifices, knowing full well what the consequences would be. Never forget that," he said with a heavy sigh as he reached up a gloved hand and gently brushed away a tear as it trailed down her cheek.

"Besides, there's no time for that now," he smiled sympathetically, and surveyed the great room and the upstairs landing. "Where's Blondie?"

Hawke motioned toward her bedroom with a slight nod of her head. "He's upstairs, packing."

"_Packing?_" Varric scoffed. "But he has less to his name than a Darktown orpha-"

"I _know,_" Hawke interrupted and _almost_ grinned. "Trust me, Varric, I know."

The darkness crept over her face again. "The walk back here together was…" she searched for the right word, and shook her head when she couldn't find it, "…unpleasant. Uncomfortable? That doesn't even begin to describe it. I…needed a few moments alone, as did he. I'm grateful he knows me well enough that I didn't have to ask."

Varric nodded in understanding. "Hawke, tell me something. Do you blame him?"

"No," she replied without thinking, but paused. "Yes. Maybe? _Blast_, I don't know…" she said with an exasperated sigh and tossed up her arms. "It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is," he said knowingly. "Are you angry with him?"

Hawke pursed her lips, cast her eyes downward, and searched herself for a moment before answering. Unraveling the tangled knot of emotions she was struggling to come to terms with was an impossible task at present, and she knew it. She cast an upward glance at the bedroom door, where a sliver of golden candle-light was the only indication that Anders was still within. Whether or not he was listening, she didn't know.

"I can't put into words what I'm feeling right now, Varric. Anger is in there somewhere, yes, among other things, but I can't really say if it's toward him," she paused again and bit her lower lip, visibly wrestling with something internal.

"I _love_ him, Varric, desperately, _painfully_ so. I think that's the hardest part for me to accept. It _consumes me_. Sometimes I _hate_ myself for it. He stirs something in me that I can neither deny nor control. I can't explain it. I…can't help myself around him. _I'm sorry._"

"Shhh…I know, beautiful. We _all_ know, always did. Good thing he has you, right?" he said with a warm smile and another wink. "He needs someone, _you_, to be strong for him right now. You know that, right?" Varric offered up what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and squeezed her hands.

"Yes, Varric, I know…and I _will_. I just…who will be strong for _me_?" she looked down at Varric with a desperate pleading in her eyes that pained his heart. "That has always been _you_. And _Aveline_. And _Isabela_. And _Fenr_-"

As she listed off the names of her companions, those who had become her support and _family _over the last few difficult years, she remembered their faces and all they had been through together. It all came flooding back with a force she wasn't prepared for. Their unfaltering loyalty, their friendship and camaraderie, the laughter, the tears, the comfort…each memory was like one of Bianca's bolts hitting glass. One after the other created vast cracks in her already weakened defenses until something deep within Hawke utterly and completely shattered. She lost her voice and collapsed to her knees, defeated, undone, both unable and unwilling to struggle against the undertow of emotions that grabbed hold and pulled her under with a vengeance.

And all her carefully constructed walls came crashing down. Hawke's body shook violently from the unrelenting fit of sobs. It felt good to let go, but even then she knew she had to fight to regain control, and _soon_.

In all the years Varric had called Hawke a friend, he had never seen her fall apart like this. He'd been at her side when Bethany left to become a Gray Warden, and when she'd lost her mother. Neither was like this, not by a long shot. She had always been their beacon, their cornerstone, their strength and most importantly, their hope. Now, she looked so small, so vulnerable, so _wounded_. He prayed to the Maker this was the first and last time he would see her like this; seeing the most bright, unshakable, and hopeful of them defeated like this…well, to call it unsettling was about as grievous of an understatement as he could think of. It broke his heart, truly.

For all of his sharp wit, easy joviality, cleverness, and silver-tongued charm, Varric was never very good with this sort of thing, and it pained him more than he would ever admit to, even years later. So, he did all he could think to do and wrapped his arms around his dear friend, gently stroked her hair, and quietly hushed her until her trembling subsided and she was breathing steadily again. It didn't take long, but that was precious time he knew his friends couldn't spare.

Varric wasn't sure how long Anders had been standing on the balcony, but he looked like death warmed over. His robe was caked with blood, soot, and Maker knows what else. The shadows under his eyes made him look more like a broken, empty husk than a man, especially with the tear-streaked stains trailing down his cheeks. And the pain in his eyes was unbearable, even for Varric. The severely grief-stricken, guilty, and utterly defeated and _lost_ look on his face suggested he'd been watching long enough to see Hawke finally reach her breaking point, and succumb to it.

Though he wanted to rush to her side, to comfort her, Anders couldn't will his legs to move. Seeing her, _his love_, like this…it broke him in ways he never thought possible. He'd endured much in his life—poverty, solitary confinement, unspeakable abuse at the hands of zealous templars, the Joining ritual, Darkspawn, demons, and even the perverted rituals of blood mages—but this? This was worse, _far worse_. Had he let Fenris rip his beating heart from his chest, he imagined it would have been less painful than seeing Hawke like this.

"Maker's breath," he murmured in a barely audible, vacant whisper, "_What have I done?_"

Justice had been unusually silent since the incident at the Chantry, but Anders could still feel him there in the folds of his consciousness. Yet, something had changed. He felt…remorse? Sadness? Loss? But not entirely for what they had recently done. No, this was rooted in something else, something older. Somewhere, deep within, the name "Aura" repeated a few times, along with feelings of boundless emptiness and regret.

Varric cursed under his breath. They were running out of time. He cupped a hand to Hawke's ear and quickly whispered to her.

"Lady Hope, _listen_ to me. You may not be able to save him, but you have to try. If anyone has a chance at succeeding, it's you. What you two have, it comes once in a lifetime, sometimes _never_ for truly unfortunate sods. _You. Must. Fight for it._"

He placed his hands on her shoulders, gave them a gentle squeeze, and carefully let go. Varric stood and spun on his heels to face Anders on the balcony. Hawke remained on the floor, not entirely returned to her senses still. She was lost within herself again, staring blankly at her trembling blood-and-tear stained hands. How could hands that had done such good, built so much, saved so many, have dealt so much death in one day? And for _what_? At what point does the cost outweigh the reward, and who was to say exactly when that happened? Maybe it had been that way from the beginning and she was simply blind to it. She wasn't sure.

Varric very calmly removed his gloves, brought his hands together in a single thunderous clap that echoed through the estate, and roared up at Anders, "Snap out of it, Blondie! Get your ass down here. She _needs_ you."

That was the jolt they needed to come back to the present, to face the grave and pressing matters at hand. Both Anders and Hawke blinked, wide-eyed in disbelief at Varric. They would later both laugh and marvel about this moment, as neither had _ever_ before (or since) heard Varric raise his voice in such a manner. Not when Bartrand betrayed them in the Deep Roads, not when he lost a hefty sum in a game of diamondback, and not even when Isabela fondled Bianca.

Anders nearly toppled down the stairs in his haste to fly to Hawke's side. He dropped to his knees, threw his arms around her, and frantically whispered into her raven hair, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _I'm so sorry. _I'll fix this somehow. _I promise._" Hawke couldn't, didn't _want_ to, fight anymore. She let herself fall into him, allowing his warmth and comfort to surround her. They clung to each other with such desperate intensity that one might think their lives depended on it, and to them, it _did_.

He may never be able to fully change the plight of mages, but Anders knew that Hawke would remain by his side to try, come what may. Maker be damned if he wouldn't do something right in his life for once and fix things with her somehow. When she held his life in her hands and was faced with exacting justice—just as he had—she chose to instead show him more mercy, love, and compassion than he felt he ever deserved. When he lied to her, she was clearly hurt but found it in her heart to forgive him. When he betrayed her trust, she stood, unfaltering, by his side. When he broke her heart so many times before, he always expected her to finally realize what a hopeless, broken case he was and turn her back on him. Yet, she never did, and it made his guilt that much worse. Every time he hurt her, she surprised him and, against all odds, drew him in even closer, loved him more deeply than before.

After all that had transpired, all she had sacrificed for him, forgiven him for, and stood by him through, he owed her this much. Anders was filled with a new sense of purpose. He resigned himself to be strong for her now, even if he hadn't the strength to be strong for himself.

"I'm going to leave you two to talk for a few minutes—seems like you might need it," Varric said with a knowing grin. "Rivaini's on her ship in the harbor, keeping an eye on the templars searching for you two on the docks. She's going to send a signal when she sees them leave. I need to see if I can spot her signal from here. I _should_ be able to see it from one of the upstairs windows or balcony if I'm lucky, the rooftop if I'm not."

Varric narrowed his eyes in a mock glare and waggled a finger at Anders. "So help me, Blondie, if I fall, I expect you to _kiss it and make it better_."

The three friends allowed themselves the first genuine laugh for what felt like the first time in ages, and Varric strode upstairs, feeling quite proud of himself and energized with a renewed sense of hope.

* * *

><p>Anders knew that Varric was right—the templars would be banging down the Amell estate door, and soon, but he allowed himself a few sweet moments to lose himself in Hawke's eyes. Those stormy blue eyes and the power they had to see right through every ruse, every defense, straight <em>into<em> him. He loved her more than he could ever express for that. Anders felt like he was seeing the woman who held his heart, really _seeing_ her, for the first time. And in turn, as if seeing his own reflection for the first time, through her he was finally seeing himself as she did.

Why it had taken him this long to open his eyes and truly see, or what changed, he couldn't really grasp, but Maker was he glad for it. It was exhilarating, liberating, and _terrifying_. All in one day, he had gone from resigning himself to death, to feeling reborn. Perhaps it was the hopeless romantic in him, or what she instilled in him, but for once in his life he dared to believe that maybe this would last. Perhaps he could have happiness, and…dare he even think it? _A future._ Hope—it was always an unattainable, forbidden thing for Anders, like freedom. It was like a butterfly, beautiful, always out of reach, and so delicate that a single touch, let alone holding it too close, would undoubtedly destroy it. Was all this too much to hope for? Perhaps, but she gave him the will to believe in things he once thought _impossible_. Lady Hope, indeed—Varric's nickname for Hawke suited her more than she'd _ever_ know.

_No words._ Sometimes the very language we use to futilely attempt to convey raw emotions steals their power, and Hawke knew this was one of those times. She gently cupped Anders' weary-worn face between her palms and tenderly kissed trails down both cheeks where tears had dampened his skin. Anders returned her affection, holding her face in his hands he pressed his lips to hers in kiss they would both come to remember as the moment that bound them forever. He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, "_I love y-_"

Hawke wasn't ready for words yet, so she silenced him with another kiss, which she felt him smile through. They held onto to each other for a few more precious moments, before Anders nuzzled her soft cheek with his nose and stood, and offering a hand to her.

Hawke took Anders' hand and rose to take her place by his side, smiling in adoration. That characteristic spark of fierce determination he so admired was reignited in her eyes. In him, she had found her strength and Maker save anyone who would stand in her way. Hawke's face lit up as she remembered one of the main reasons she had asked Varric to the estate. She snapped her fingers and dashed for her writing desk, all the while Anders looked on with something between a puzzled and a bemused expression.

"Where are they, where are they…? Ah! There we are," Hawke exclaimed and she spun around and triumphantly held up three small velvet pouches, swinging them from their drawstrings.

"Aaand, those are…?" Anders asked with a quizzical look.

Hawke saw an opportunity to lighten the mood a little, something she was always quite good at, so she ran with it. "Well, last I checked, they're velvet pouches, with silk-thread drawstrings. You know, you _put things in them,_" she said in a snarky tone. She _almost_ couldn't contain her mirth and keep a straight face, but she was having fun playing with him.

Anders snorted indignantly, and planted his hands on his hips. "I'm not blind; I _know_ what they are. What's _in_ them?"

"Maaaybe I won't tell you!" she sung, with an impish grin, egging him on more.

Anders momentarily forgot his troubles, happy to give in and play along. "Oh _really_! Is this a guessing game then? I _like_ guessing games. Let's see, they each hold some priceless family heirloom, right? Or perhaps something more _scandalous_," Anders teased.

Hawke laughed and spun the pouches around her forefinger. "Well, both _could_ be correct, in the right hands."

"What about the left ones?" he joked and wiggled the fingers on his left hand.

She groaned and laughed at the bad pun. "Maker, that was _terrible_." She strode over to Anders and took his hand. "Here, hold out your palm."

He quirked a brow at her and feigned suspicion. "Sweetheart, you aren't going to drop a spider or some small rabid beasty into my hand, are you?" he said with a roguish smirk that made her heart flutter.

Hawke rolled her eyes and smiled. It was so good to see him acting himself again, even if it just for a little while. "Oh, _please_. Even if I did, we both know you'd be _fine_."

He quickly withdrew his hand, pouted, and narrowed his golden-brown eyes playfully. "Just because I _can_ heal myself doesn't mean you should do things to me to make it necessary! You're a _very_ bad girl sometimes, you know that?" he scolded and tapped her nose with his finger. "Isabela has had too much of an influence on you."

She grinned and grabbed his hand. "Oh, you _love_ it and wouldn't have it any other way. Don't lie."

"No spiders or other biting things. I _promise_." Hawke said as she loosened the strings on one of the pouches, and shook the contents of it into his palm. What dropped into his hand was a small, but heavy and ornately crafted metal key with the Amell crest imprinted on it.

Anders held it up to examine it. "A key? Is this to…?" and he gestured all around him.

"This estate, yes," she answered, and some of the light faded from her expression as she plucked it from his fingers and returned it to its pouch. "I'm leaving it to the others."

Anders caught the hint of sadness that returned to her voice—without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, drew her to his chest, and lovingly kissed her temple. He knew how hard this must be for her, to give up her family home. It was all she really had left of her parents.

A "thud" that they could only assume was Varric jumping down from somewhere, followed by the sound of hastened footsteps from upstairs, alerted them of the dwarf's return and brought them back to the task at hand. Moments later, Varric was striding down the stairs at full clip.

"Time to go, lovebirds—Isabela just sent the signal. You have eight minutes, _maybe _ten, before the templars get here, and they're _not_ going to want to come in for a friendly chat and pie."

The soon-to-be fugitive couple exchanged worried glances. Hawke smiled up at Anders and gently caressed his cheek with her palm, which he turned into and kissed. "Alright, let's do this," he whispered in her ear.

Hawke nodded and asked him for a few moments alone with Varric, to settle the final estate details. Anders graciously obliged and returned upstairs to gather the rest of their meager belongings.

"Varric, there's no reason this estate needs to remain empty in my absence. I would have it enjoyed by those I trust who have need or want of a little more comfort. It's the least I can do," Hawke explained to him as she placed the three velvet pouches in his hand, and continued, talking a little faster.

"Three keys—one is for you…" and she placed the first pouch in Varric's palm, "…one is for Fenris…" she placed the second pouch in his hand, "…and the last one is for Uncle Gamlen," she said as she placed the last pouch in his hand, atop the other two.

Varric tried to open his mouth to protest, but she put a finger to his lips, shook her head, and kept talking without skipping a beat.

"I know how much you enjoy the Hanged Man, Varric, but if you ever need another place to hang your coat, please consider my estate your home. Fenris…," she pursed her lips and sighed through her nose remembering their _complicated_ history, "…I'm not fooling myself into thinking Fenris will accept the key, but please do try to talk him into it. Maker knows, the City Guard won't allow him to stay in that wreck of a mansion he's been calling home for much longer, even with Aveline on his side. I won't see him turned out on the street, even if he does still wish to rip out the beating heart of the man I love."

"He still cares for you a _great_ deal, Hawke," Varric reminded her. "And every time he thinks Anders has hurt you…," he shrugged, "…well, you _know_ how protective he is."

"I know…" she sighed, a part of her still regretting that part of her past, but grateful for Fenris's fierce loyalty and reckless protection. "And Uncle Gamlen, well, what can I say? He's family, even if he is a grouchy old bastard. I take care of my own."

She paused for a moment, looked around, and tapped her lips with her forefinger, trying to remember if she'd forgotten anything.

"Oh, Orana. Maker's breath, that poor, sweet girl needs to get out more. She'd be better off in the alienage, if you ask me, or with Merrill. She's free and welcome to go live her life, but if she truly wishes to stay, let her."

"It sounds like you've got this all figured out. Anything else? Are you taking old Slobbermaw there?" Varric chuckled and gestured toward the mabari, who was sleeping belly-up (and _snoring_!), legs sprawled in all directions, on the rug in front of the hearth.

"Slobbermaw!" Hawke gleefully exclaimed and erupted into a loud belly laugh. "Yes, I'm bringing Riven with us. He'll be good company and protection." Upon hearing his name, Riven lazily half-opened one eye and stretched his legs in the air.

"True enough. Not many folk along the road would mess with an apostate, an assassin, and a mabari," Varric mused. "Hey, that sounds like the lead in to a good joke I once heard, or the makings of a winning tale…or _both_! I'll have to write that one down."

Hawke laughed, clapped her dear friend on the shoulder, and sighed through a smile. "I'm going to miss you, Varric."

"And I, you, Lady Hope," he replied warmly. He glanced up at where Anders had gone and leaned in closer to Hawke. "Did you tell him?" he whispered secretively.

"Tell him what? My plan?" she questioned, raising a single, dark eyebrow.

"No, about the fact that we're _eloping_," he teased, and turned his head to whisper over his shoulder, "Just kidding, Bianca." He grinned at Hawke and said very matter-of-factly, _"Yes_, your plan."

She chuckled at his joke, but answered in a gravely serious tone. "Nooo, _Maker, no._ He…" she paused and glanced up at their bedroom and shook her head. "No, he would _never_ agree to it if he knew." Hawke felt a sharp pang of guilt in her chest. Admitting her plan of deception out loud somehow made it sound far worse than it had in her head, good intentions be damned.

Varric nodded. "You're right, he wouldn't. It's probably best you keep it from him as long as you can."

"I agree," she said with a slow nod and a hint of regret. "Better to deceive him in the short term and keep him protected, than to be completely honest and risk losing him." She prayed he'd understand and forgive her when the time came.

"You and Fenris are more alike than you realize, Hawke. Minus the glowy fist-through-the-chest thing, of course," Varric said with a chuckle. "Well, Isabela is prepared to meet you on The Wounded Coast in three days should you need her ship. And Daisy went ahead already. She'll be awaiting you two atop Sundermount. Hawke, she's taking a big risk returning there. You know that right? Do you really think this will work?"

"I know. I'll keep Merrill safe. I don't know if this will work or where it will take us, but it's the best lead I've got, Varric. I have to _try_. And if it doesn't work, I have a backup plan. And backup plan for _that_ backup plan. If all three plans fail, well then perhaps I'll just take a little vacation to the Fade and invite a spirit of something equally as reckless and angry into myself, then Anders and I can live happily ever after. We may both end up crazy, but hey we'll be crazy _together_!" She was only half joking.

Varric and Hawke joined in raucous laughter as she picked up and shouldered her pack. It was hard to believe she'd be leaving the only life she'd known for the past ten years, but she felt at peace with her decision. This was right. This was worth it. _He_ was worth it.

"Are you ready, love?" Anders said, as he walked down the stairs, his own pack slung over his shoulder. Maybe she was fooling herself, seeing what she wanted to see, but she could have sworn he looked a little lighter, a little happier, a little more hopeful even.

She smiled and nodded, and said her final farewell to Varric. "Thank you for everything, Varric. You've been a good friend. Don't you _dare_ forget me," Hawke said as she gave him a tight squeeze.

"Never," he said with a loud laugh, "How would I continue to write your story if I did? I expect you to come back and give me more material. If you don't, I might have to take my own liberties. You've been warned!"

"I wouldn't have it any other way." She said with a warm smile. Hawke gave Varric a quick kiss on the cheek, grabbed Anders by the hand, and dashed toward the estate cellars with him in tow.

"Maker watch over you, both!" Varric called after them.

Anders and Hawke, with Riven at their heels, silently disappeared through the hidden passage and into the shadows leading to Darktown.

They knew the odds were weighed heavily them, but as long as Hawke had a purpose—no matter how small or seemingly impossible—hope combined with her hard-headed stubbornness and determination was enough to keep her going. It always had been, and now, _he_ was her purpose. She refused to see Anders simply endure anymore. They would _live_. They would _persevere_. And starting tonight, they would be _free_.


	2. Fragile

_A/N: I had a few requests to split up the chapters a bit more for easier readability, so I've done so. Reviews and PM's are very welcome! _BioWare owns all rights to Dragon Age and associated characters, lore, places, etc._  
><em>

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><p><em><strong>Redemption<strong>_

**Chapter 2 - Fragile**

"_There will be more violence. I know that. If you tie yourself to me, I'll only hurt you."_ - Anders

The simple act of passing through the concealed Amell estate cellar door struck Hawke as curiously profound. Through this cellar, the very same she used to first enter her family home so many years ago, she would also be using to leaving it, possibly forever; one door, one path, leaving one life behind and beginning another. Anders and Riven silently slipped through the small door after her, and she locked it behind them with a sharp "click". The cellar passage that spanned before them was cool and silent, save for a few muffled squeaks and skitters from the ever present Kirkwall vermin. The still cellar air had an earthy, musty scent that filled Hawke nostalgia; for a few moments she fondly recollected her first venture into the cellar with Bethany to discover their family's past. _That was a lifetime ago_, she thought. Hawke rubbed the back of her neck and drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose and returning to the present. _Focus_, she reminded herself_._ She tucked away the cellar door key in a small leather pouch attached to her belt and stood atop the stairs beside Anders, taking a moment to get her bearings.

Anders affectionately placed a hand on her upper back, radiating warmth into her. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire, hmm?" he whispered with a grim smirk.

Hawke snickered and half-smiled while scanning the immediate area for any signs of danger. "Into the fire _indeed_," she muttered, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light.

"This cellar _should_ be unoccupied, but I don't want to take any chances," the assassin said as she knelt on the dusty stairs and swiftly unsheathed her daggers. "Give me a few moments please, love."

Anders watched Hawke and his heart swelled with pride and admiration. He'd seen her go through this preparation ritual a hundred times before, but it was not lost to him that this time was different; this time it was for _him_. She acted with the same precision and expertise that a seasoned artist would when selecting just the right hues for a pallet. Hawke examined several tiny glass vials of various shapes and colors hanging from loops around her belt, pulling them out and lightly shaking each before finally settling on one containing a dark oily-green liquid. She uncorked it and carefully poured a few sticky drops along her dagger tips. Riven leaned in and curiously sniffed her daggers; one whiff and he cowered away with a high-pitched whine, pawing at his nose.

"_Careful, _old boy, you don't want to touch or breathe that stuff," Hawke warned and gave the mabari a few pats on his broad head.

With several dexterous flicks of her wrist, the assassin ran her blade edges against each other to smear the toxin along each. Metal resonated against metal, creating a sound that was both grating and melodic. Hawke sealed the poison vial, hooked it back into her belt, and gave a satisfied nod as she examined her handiwork.

Anders extended a hand, which Hawke gladly took and beamed up at him. "Thank you," she whispered and gave him a quick kiss on his stubble-covered cheek.

"This way," Hawke said with a feral glint in her steely-blue eyes. She gripped both daggers and crept down the stairs in a predatory crouch with Riven at her heels. _Protect him_, _**must**__ protect him_; it occupied her every thought.

It was moments like this that Anders was reminded what a formidable foe his lover could be. Compassionate, gentle, and utterly devoted as she was in more peaceful and private moments, when faced with protecting someone she loved, she transformed into something else entirely; something ferocious, silent, beautiful, and _lethal_—a lithe wildcat. "Hmmm, remind me to _never_ get on your 'I want to stab these people in the face' list. Or to let you near any of my food…_or drink_," Anders said with a chuckle. "You know how to do _far_ too many very nasty things with that stuff."

"After everything Isabela taught me? Oh, you don't know the _half _of it, love," Hawke replied through a wicked grin as she flattened herself against a dusty wall and peered around a corner. She gave a slight wave, indicating it was safe to move into the next passage.

Anders laughed nervously, but abruptly went straight-faced and gave her a suspicious side-glance. "Uh…_oh_. Wait, _what?_ No, on second thought, I _don't_ want to know," he said with a chuckle and shook his head. "Which one are you using today?"

"The instant-_death_ variety," she replied in a cool, even tone that sent ripples of excitement and danger through Anders.

"Ohhh, the _good_ stuff then!" he cooed. "Right. Yes. _Definitely_ glad you're on my side."

Hawke laughed and replied very matter-of-factly, "Yes, well…" she paused and sighed, gazing down at the bedraggled stranger reflected back at her in her drawn dagger blades. "I've certainly had my fill of death today, but we can't risk anyone following us or tracking us out of the city."

_Protect. __**Protect him.**_

"Walk as silently as you can please, love. Like this," she said and showed Anders how to walk with catlike grace and silence. She stepped out with one foot, carefully planting down her heel first, and slowly rolling the rest of her foot down until her toes touched the ground. He repeated the action as instructed and nodded.

"Perfect!" Hawke praised him and winked, giving him an approving thumbs-up and a proud smile. "I'll teach you to be an assassin-mage yet!"

Anders sidled up to her and leaned his face close to hers. "Does that mean I get to play with your _poisons?_" he asked, flashing a disarming smile that made her heart flutter.

"Is that some sort of weird _innuendo?"_ she asked coyly and raised a single black eyebrow.

The scruffy-faced mage felt heat rise to his face as his cheeks flushed. "Wh-_what?_ No…well, I guess it _could_ be," he replied with a wide grin and a playful nudge.

Hawke shook her head and chuckled. "_No_, I will not teach you how to use poison," she replied and gave him a stern look. _Maker, what a supreme _disaster_ that would be, _she could see it now. "I already taught you the antidotes to most of these. Isn't that enough?"

"Awww…" Anders mock-whined and gave her his best puppy-dog eyes and pout.

She covered her face with the palm of her hand. _Ugh, I hate it when he makes that face. I can't say no to him when he does, and he _knows_ it—wicked man_, she thought to herself_._ She played along, "Well, maybe if you're _good_."

"My love, you _wound_ me. I'm _always_ good," he objected and melodramatically clutched at his heart.

Hawke snerked; how could she pass up that kind of set up? She leaned in until her face was a few inches from his. "Yes, _yes you are_," she said in a breathy voice, deliberately biting one corner of her lower-lip and casting him a knowing upward glance through dark lashes. Anders caught her not-so-subtle meaning and a sly grin bloomed across his face. Hawke gave him a quick kiss before turning on her heels with barely contained mirth, leaving Anders with all manner of _very_ distracting thoughts.

_Tease_, he mused. "_Now_ who's making innuendos?" he chided with an amused smirk.

Hawke flashed him a capricious grin. "Alright, so as we continue, let me walk a few steps ahead to scout for traps. No talking from here on out unless we really need to, please."

Anders nodded and smirked, adding a "Not the most scenic evening stroll, but I certainly can't complain about the view," quip that made Hawke stop mid-step to stifle an amused laugh.

She turned to look over her shoulder with one brow raised, and a mischievous smirk on her lips. "Are you staring at my…?"

Anders held up his hands in mock innocence, and gave her a roguish wink.

"You're _insufferable_," she replied, shaking her head, but smiling all the same. "Come on, let's go."

* * *

><p>The journey through the cellar was slow but not unpleasant—the trio slipped through each passage with little difficulty and no resistance, using the shadows as cover. Nearing the cellar's final passage leading to Darktown, Riven abruptly halted at Hawke's flank and let out a low, rumbling growl, his hackles bristling. Hawke held up a hand, signaling Anders to stop and get out of sight. They crept behind a massive wooden keg and listened.<p>

At first, they heard nothing out of the ordinary, then came a few muffled voices and what Hawke could only guess was the crackling of a fire. Her pulse quickened as her heart rapidly hammered against her ribs. _Well, here we go_, she thought. She took a deep breath, and leaned back against the wall behind the keg, biting her lower lip and trying to quickly sort through her racing thoughts. Should she go ahead to scout and leave him here? Should she bring him? The assassin was feeling surprisingly anxious and conflicted, and she knew had no time for either.

"I _know_ that look," Anders whispered and regarded her with stern concern. His face was inches from hers, so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheeks. He gently raised her chin with his fingers so she was looking straight into his amber-brown eyes, and searched her face for a few moments. "No. _No,"_ he said and lightly tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger as he emphasized each word,_ "_Don't. Even. _Think_ about it, love. We go _together_."

"Alright," Hawke sighed, secretly relieved. She was unsure if this was the best decision, but her nervousness subsided a little knowing he would be at her side.

Hawke took Anders by the hand and they crept toward the voices. As they got closer, she saw the telltale dancing shadows from a fire cast on the passage walls ahead. That guess was correct, but the voices were still too quiet to discern, and now that they were closer, she heard something else she hadn't heard before.

"Is that…_crying_?" Hawke whispered and scruntched her face in confusion. "Listen."

Both held their breath, listened, and exchanged puzzled glances.

"That's what it _sounds_ like," Anders whispered. "Something..._something...isn't...right_." The mage abruptly strode out ahead at full clip, leading the way. Hawke opened her mouth to object, but he was already almost to the door where the firelight was coming from.

"_Andraste's ass_, _Anders!_" she hissed under her breath and sprinted after him, envenomed daggers drawn at the ready.

They both reached the doorway at the same time, but neither was prepared for what they saw. Their sudden, silent appearance was met with startled gasps and cries, as every being inside recoiled in fear. Huddled in the corners were half a dozen or more filthy, battered, and _terrified_ looking Darktown residents. Several were badly injured, with protruding fractured bones and deep lethal-looking gashes, stretched out on grimy, threadbare blankets. The smell turned her stomach, and the blood, _so much blood_—several of the victims were only children. Hawke dropped her daggers and clapped both hands over her mouth, too late to stop the anguished cry that still escaped her lips. She reached out a hand and grasped Anders' arm; she could see the tears welling up in his eyes as he stood there, paralyzed, with a pained, _horrified_ look on his face. She didn't think her heart could break any more today, but there it was.

"_Anders?_" a gaunt woman with graying hair gasped in disbelief. "Oh, thank the Maker. Anders, it _is_ you. And The Champion!" she said, her weary-worn face lighting up with a hopeful smile.

"Moire…?" Anders said in a dazed hush, his eyes wide with shock and concern, and his heart in his throat. He slowly ran his hands over his face, struck with confusion and disbelief. "_Maker, what…_" he tried to make sense of what he and Hawke had just stumbled upon, but found himself wholly lost for words. He decided that might be for the best anyway; these people clearly needed a healer, not words. The healer silently propped his staff against one of the walls and knelt beside a little girl with tangled chestnut braids, barely five or six years old, who had a nasty gash on her forehead. It looked like it might be to the bone—she'd need stitches. _Many stitches_. And her smooth olive skin would probably be marred with a scar there for the rest of her life. Hawke remembered seeing her in Darktown before; she was a sweet little orphan who often sang near Anders' clinic for a few coppers. Anders gingerly held her tiny head in his palms, wiping a few tears from her dirty cheeks with his thumbs and examined the wound while quietly cooing words of comfort to her.

"What's your name again, sweetheart?" he said in a kind, soft tone.

"Sophie," she whimpered in a sad little voice that utterly broke his heart.

"_Sophie_," he said with a heartfelt smile, "Yes, I remember you now. I'll fix you right up, okay? Everything will be alright."

The little girl quieted and gazed up in pure adoration at Anders with big hazel eyes that had already seen far more hardship and cruelty in her short life than any child ought.

"Champion? Is that you?" a familiar voice weakly croaked, and a lanky dark-haired elf propped himself up from a blanket in the opposite corner. His face brightened when he saw her, despite a grimace that indicated he was in a great deal of pain.

"Maker's breath! _Tomwise?_" Hawke gasped and dashed to his side. She stopped short and her heart sank to the floor; his left leg was a crushed, bloody, almost indistinguishable mass of bone and flesh. There would be no saving it. She slowly knelt beside Tomwise and winced. "What did you get yourself into this time, old friend?"

"Pretty bad isn't it, Champion?" the elf asked, giving her a half-hearted smile.

"You'll be fine, Tom. I've seen worse," she lied and gave his shoulder a comforting pat.

"What _happened?_" Anders asked in a shaky, infuriated voice and scanned every frightened face in the small cellar room. "_Who _did_ this?_"

"Well," Tomwise took a slow, unsteady breath and continued, "two things happened. There was an explosion or _something_. We're not sure what happened, but there was this _horrible_, deafening 'boom!' then 'crack!' and the entire west wing of Darktown below the Chantry _collapsed _right on top of us. Huge pieces of mortar and stone just…_fell_. It all happened so fast. Several were crushed alive, including a few kids who were hanging out by my shop. I was lucky to get out. Well, _mostly_," he said with a wince and looked at his left leg.

The realization and guilt hit Anders like a knife through the heart, and he felt like he may be physically ill. He hung his head in shame, and stared into the woeful eyes of the little girl he was holding. He saw wet spots appear on her face, unaware of where they were coming from. She reached up a tiny, delicate hand and traced the freely flowing tears that were trailing down his face onto hers. He squeezed his eyes shut, his whole being wracked with grief, and silently wept over her.

"Don't cry, healer," she squeaked in a tiny, worried voice, and smiled sweetly up at him.

Hawke knew what all this meant, and what it would do to Anders. She wished they had instead run into thugs, or mercenaries, or even _templars_. Anything would have been better than this. _Anything._ She felt her throat tighten up as she looked at him, feeling pangs of shared grief and guilt. He had his back to her, but she could tell by the violent shaking of his shoulders that he was breaking down again. She carefully helped Tomwise lie back down, rose to her feet, and walked over to Anders. She stood behind him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and softly squeezed it. Hawke dearly hoped that knowing she was there to support him would be enough to hold him together for now. He seemed to calm a little at her touch, and reached up a hand to touch hers—a silent gesture of love and gratitude—but kept his teary gaze locked with the little girl's.

"…what else? Sophie, angel, _who_ did this to you?" he asked grimly, and gently stroked her plump little cheek with the back of his hand.

Her hazel eyes widened in fear and her brow knitted. "The _bad_ men," she said in a hushed tone, like she was speaking of a nightmare that might suddenly appear if she spoke of it too loudly.

The gray-haired woman, Moire, spoke up again. "Champion, Anders," she said in a wizened voice, with a polite nod to both, "I can explain what happened. We all fled into this cellar together, carrying the wounded. After the west wing collapsed, the few City Guards patrolling Darktown quickly left to tend to whatever happened up above. In their absence, slavers swarmed Darktown and tried to capture everyone left. We were no match for them." The elderly woman's eyes welled up with tears and her voice cracked with despair. "They…they took Marienne, Luca, even little Poppy, and several others."

Anders' whole body suddenly went rigid and Hawke's eyes widened with alarm as the telltale, dazzling spirit-glow crackled and gleamed from under his skin—Justice was asserting control. Sophie, still in Anders' trembling hands, looked up at him, terrified and confused. Anders was gone.

Hawke unleashed a long string of chained obscenities under her breath that would have made Isabela proud. She had _never_ seen him lose control this abruptly or quickly. The assassin swiftly positioned herself behind her lover and threw her arms around him, holding him as tight as her strength would allow. She knew she wouldn't be able to hold him for long; he was _far_ stronger than she as Justice.

"The atrocities and abuses these people have suffered must be paid for—_blood for blood_. Those responsible will feel justice's wrath! They must _die!_" the Spirit of Justice roared in an otherworldly voice. "Who binds me? _Release me, at once!_" he snarled and elbowed Hawke hard in the gut. She felt a crack and a sharp pain in her abdomen and howled in response, but held on to him even tighter, trembling from the effort, and pressed her forehead against the back of his neck. His whole body felt like it had an electric current running through it, fearsome, wild, and powerful.

"_No!_ Anders, _please _stop. Control yourself!" Hawke frantically begged; it was if he couldn't hear her _at all_. She was in complete disbelief that this was happening _right now _of all times. _Why is he not responding to me?_ "Anders, we're here to help these people! Remember? You're frightening them! We need to take care of them! We'll go after the slavers…I promise. _I promise._ Anders, I _know_ you can hear me. Please come back to me. _Please!_ Justice, I'm begging you, _stop this_—these people need healing!"

Justice thrashed in her arms and shot another sharp elbow into her abdomen. Hawke cried out in agonizing pain as a second rib cracked. Another hit like that, and she feared she'd be unable to hold him any longer. Her head rolled back—the excruciating pain had her seeing bright pinprick stars and little else. Her eyes darted around the room at the frightened refugees.

"Get out. Get out, _now!_" she gasped. They all exchanged a few uncertain, terrified glances and those who could move scrambled into the nearby cellar corridor. _"Anders!"_ she shrieked hysterically, shuddering as anguished sobs wracked her entire body.

The last thing Hawke remembered seeing before blacking out and slumping over in a crumpled, broken heap was the back of Anders' head whipping back and slamming into her forehead.


	3. Damaged

_A/N: Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit longer than the last; I hope no one minds too terribly. As always reviews and PM's are very welcome. BioWare owns all rights to Dragon Age and associated characters, lore, places, etc.  
><em>

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><p><em><strong>Redemption<strong>_

**Chapter 3 - Damaged**

_"__Poor Anders…__I think he's broken the thing he wanted to save." - Merrill_

Hawke first became aware of the all-encompassing darkness, then of her own nebulous state of awareness. _Where am I? _Feelings of confusion tempered with panic came next. _What happened?_ Something was wrong. Her visceral senses were failing her—she couldn't see, hear, or speak._ Why can't I move? _She struggled to fight her way out of the darkness. It was an unrelenting tide that tumbled her about, disoriented her consciousness, and pulled her under every time she tried to rise to the surface. Her eyelids fluttered, and she became vaguely aware of her body, faint voices and echoes, soft touches and gentle movement. More time passed and she felt warmth, a cold solidness below her, ripples of pain, and pressure against her skin. Strange but oddly familiar aromas filled her nostrils—pungent, sweet, musty, earthy, and metallic scents. Something pulled at the edges of her consciousness, stirred in her memory, and her eyelids fluttered again. _Almost. _Slits of light slowly appeared and disappeared with each belabored effort to open her eyes.

When Hawke finally came to, she became aware of a few more tangible things in disjointed bits and pieces. All her armor and clothing from the waist up, save for her undergarments, had been removed. Her right side hurt—_Andraste's tits_, _it _really_ hurt_—especially when she took a deep breath. She decided she'd stick to shallow breaths for now. She felt like she'd taken a blade in the ribcage. _Was I attacked?_ Sounds had a strange underwater, echo quality to them, though the ringing in her ears wasn't helping that either. There was also a gathering of blurry faces hovering over her, but try as she might, she couldn't _quite_ get them to come into focus. When she squinted, she became painfully aware of a third thing—she felt like she'd been head-butted by an angry bronto.

"She's awake! She's awake!" Sophie chirped in a voice that reminded Hawke of tinkling, silver wind-chimes in summer.

Hawke let out a weak groan and her head rolled to the side, slowly blinking grey-blue eyes. Even _blinking_ felt like a clumsy, laborious effort. _Sweet Andraste,_ _what happened?_ She tried to remember, but her head felt like it was filled with thick, sticky mud. Two large, warm hands lovingly slid under her limp neck and cradled her head; smooth thumbs tenderly stroked her cheeks. Something familiar tickled the edges of her mind, like a word that was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite remember. She knew those hands, and that familiar sweet scent of dried herbs mixed with musky linen and suede—_Anders!_ Everything came rushing back to her all at once, and her eyes flashed open wide with realization and panic. She planted her palms on the floor and tried to sit up too quickly, only to be met with a bolt of blinding pain and nausea that shot through her entire body, stealing her breath. Hawke's strength gave way and she felt herself falling to the ground, but Anders caught her in steady arms and cradled her into his warm chest.

"_Slowly_," Anders warned in a concerned hush, his face wracked with regret and worry. He helped her sit up, very slowly this time, keeping a protective arm around her. She slumped against his chest, her head resting against his left shoulder and her arm slid under his outer-robes, around his waist. Anders gently held her chin in his right palm; gazing down at her, he carefully examined one eye then the other. "How's your vision, love? Blurry? Are you seeing doubles of anything?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The world was still spinning, but her vision was clearing. She calmly looked around, taking in her surroundings. The little girl Anders had been tending to earlier was hovering over his right shoulder like a sweet little bird, gazing at Hawke with curious concern, a clean bandage wrapped around her head. A few of the others in the small room had fresh dressings wrapped around their wounds, and those who had been helping Anders tend to the most badly injured were all watching her now.

"Still blurry, but no double images," she answered in a voice that sounded too weak to be hers. Her tongue was thick and clumsy in her mouth and _every _part of her felt heavy and off-kilter. "Is…everyone okay? Are _you_ okay? How long was I out?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. Even now, being the one everyone was huddled around, her first and foremost concern was for them. Anders felt his stomach knot up as he was struck speechless, humbled by her selflessness and compassion.

"You haven't been unconscious for very long—maybe twenty or thirty minutes. I gave y-" his voice cracked and his face trembled and twisted in agony as he brushed his fingertips, feather-soft, over the large black-and-blue swell that now marred the pale skin on her forehead. The healer swallowed hard and continued, "You have a concussion, and at least two cracked ribs," he said with a miserable, pained expression. "Everyone else is okay. Well...as okay as they were when we got here. Thank the Maker you were here, but I…I _hurt_ you," his voice wavered and abruptly caught in his throat, his eyes welling up with stinging tears, and he cast his eyes down in shame. Hawke could see that Anders was waging a terrible war within himself, and it was painfully apparent he was losing. "_I'm so sorry._ Maybe I really should turn myself in."

Hawke felt like she was watching Anders, the center of her whole world, losing his balance on the edge of a bottomless ravine. _Don't let him fall_, she told herself. This was a downward spiral of guilt and self-defeat that Hawke knew she had to put a stop to before it got worse—it was a poison more potent than any she could mix, and one that she had no doubt would quickly destroy him from the inside out.

"_No._ Look at me," Hawke demanded and slid her palm under his chin, tilting his face up and locking her eyes with his. She cupped his face in her hands and paused between each gentle but sternly spoken word. "Anders…please. _Look._ _At. Me."_

She searched his face, his amber-brown eyes, and lovingly pressed her palm to his heart before speaking again. "It's done…and I'm sorry it happened, but I need you to hold yourself together right now. Please. I _can't_ do this alone. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Anders couldn't _believe_ how understanding she was being about this, but it was all he could to do offer her a stunned, silent nod. He was totally beside himself over what had happened—terrified, ashamed, and feeling completely unworthy of her faith, love, and devotion. He'd broken, literally _broken_, the most important thing in his life—_her, _his center, his treasure, his hope. How does one even begin to cope with seeing their worst nightmare come to fruition, and worse yet, by their own hand? His greatest fear had happened; there was no pretending it didn't or taking it back, and he had _no idea_ how to prevent it from happening again. That realization alone sent him into a spiraling, desperate, full-blown panic. Justice was getting stronger and more dangerous, or _he_ was just getting weaker—possibly both.

Hawke looked down and gingerly pressed fingertips to her right side where her abdomen was tightly wrapped in linen bandages. Anders had masterfully dressed her wounds, but she fully realized that these injuries were going to make their escape from Kirkwall, and travel in general, a much slower, more challenging affair. She smoothed her fingertips over the swelled lump on her forehead and winced. The skin there was tender and feverish, and she could only imagine how ridiculous it must look.

There was still one thing left unexplained, and she _had_ to know. Hawke cast her intense slate-blue eyes on Anders and asked, "Anders, what brought you back this time? I need to know."

The mage's face fell and he paled. His eyes grew wide and unseeing as he remembered the moment it happened. "Seeing what I'd done to you," he croaked, unable to meet her searching gaze.

Hawke pursed her lips, slowly nodded, and smiled a little. She was astounded and so very proud of him. Every fiber of his being must have wanted, so desperately, to run, fast as he could, to get as far away from her as possible to prevent this from happening again. But he didn't. She knew that this was his worst fear come true, yet he had stayed, and was facing it. This was a breakthrough, though she doubted he realized it yet. This was paramount progress—she felt hope blossom within her again.

"Thank you," she whispered with genuine sincerity, and caressed his cheek.

Anders blinked in utter confusion and alarm, and struggled to find his voice, "Wh- …thank you for _what?_ Maker's breath, _what_ are you thanking me for?_ Do you _know_ what I did? I could have _killed_ you!_"

"But you _didn't_. I'm thanking you for _not running away_," she said very slowly, placing careful emphasis on each word. She smiled affectionately. "I'm proud of you for staying and facing what happened. Thank you."

Anders felt completely, indescribably overwhelmed with emotion. How she could _possibly_ forgive him for what he'd just done to her was unfathomable, but he was grateful for it, more than she could possibly know. "You're welcome. It was the least I could do," he muttered, still feeling deeply ashamed. "I tended to you and the others as best as I could, but I could only do so much. I'm sorely lacking in certain supplies and tools. I need to get to my clinic if I'm to properly help these people."

"I'll go," Hawke asserted and reached for her shirt and armor, wincing and seeing stars as she twisted her abdomen.

"What? No, _absolutely not_. I haven't had a chance to heal you at all yet," Anders objected. "Are you nug-scat _crazy?_"

"Yes? I've never denied that," she said with a wink and her best charming smile. She knew this wasn't going to be an easy thing to convince him of—turning on the charm wouldn't hurt. She continued reasoning with him as she carefully pulled one arm at a time through her shirt and fastened the buttons. "Seriously, one of us needs to stay here, and you're the better choice. I think we _both_ know that."

Before Anders could object further, Hawke addressed the little girl perched at his side. "Sophie, dear, do you want Anders to stay here while I run an errand?"

"Yes! Stay here!" Sophie sang, and threw her tiny arms around Anders' neck, resting her chin on his feathered pauldrons.

Anders rolled his golden-brown eyes at Hawke in pure exasperation; he couldn't believe she would use a little girl against him—a _wounded_ little girl—to get her way. "May I speak with you _privately_ for a moment, love?" The mage gently removed Sophie's arms from around his neck and rose to his feet. He shook his head in disbelief and followed Hawke out into the cellar passage.

"You know I adore you, but that was _not_ _fair_," he said in an irritated tone, defiantly folding his arms across his chest.

"Sorry, love, but I don't always play fair. You _know_ that," Hawke reminded Anders with a surly grin. She was already slipping into her leather armor, tightening straps and fastening buckles. "Remember we _need_ to get out of town as soon as possible. The longer we stay here, the more danger we're putting ourselves, _and everyone around us_, in. You need supplies from your clinic to properly help these people. Yes?"

"Yes," he admitted, "Tomwise is going to need an amputation and crutches. Several of the others need splints and slings, and I could use more bandages and liniments. I store all of those things in the back room of my clinic."

Hawke nodded and continued, "I remember. And one of us needs to make sure these people are protected while the other is gone. The cellar entrance to Darktown is _right_ there," she said and pointed down the corridor, "And the clinic is just around the corner once I'm outside. I'll be in and out and back here before you know it."

"I don't like this. _At all._ What if you're attacked while you're out there alone? _Then_ what?" Anders asked, his brow deeply furrowed in concern. He affectionately stroked her cheek, and swept a wisp of black hair from her eyes. "_Please_ be reasonable—don't do this," he whispered.

Hawke sighed and gave him a half-hearted smile, trying to lighten the mood, "Isabela read my fortune the other day and assured me I won't die anytime soon. Or at least not _this week_. Sorry, but you're stuck with me!" Anders just raised an eyebrow and gave her an incredulous 'I'm _not_ amused' look, so she dropped the attempt at humor and took a more sincere approach. "You know I can handle myself. I'll be careful. I _promise_."

Anders could see she'd made up her mind, and when she'd done that, there was no winning the battle. He knew she was right anyway; he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, begrudgingly giving in.

"Fine," Anders conceded and let out a long sigh. "Bring Riven at least, and let me take care of your concussion first, please. Your ribs will take a bit more effort and time."

"Deal," she said triumphantly and gave him a quick, determined nod.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Anders said graciously and stepped closer to her, holding his hands over her bruised forehead. He closed his eyes and focused on mending the lesser of her two injuries; white light, pure and serene, emanated from his palms. She felt a peaceful presence, calm, warm, and comforting, connect deep within her. Hawke watched him with awe and adoration—how anyone could consider this beautiful, miraculous _gift_ nothing short of a blessing was a mystery to her.

The light from Anders hands faded, and he staggered back against the wall, weakened from the effort of healing her. Hawke took his face in her hands and kissed him between hushed words of gratitude, vows of love, and promises that all would be well. She helped her lover back to the others and left for Darktown with Riven following close behind. As she walked to the end of the passage, she gently ran her fingertips over her forehead; the lump was gone, as was the pain. All that remained was a tingly, warm sensation that lingered on her skin where Anders had used his healing magic on her. _Amazing_, she thought and felt a renewed fervor_._ Her right side still throbbed under her armor, but it was tolerable as long as she didn't take a deep breath or move too quickly.

Anders watched on from the doorway of the temporary refugee camp, dwarfing Sophie's little hand in his, until Hawke's silhouette was swallowed up by the darkness. Under his breath, he whispered a desperate plea, "Maker, _please_ bring her back to me safely."

* * *

><p>Hawke slowly eased open the wooden hatch leading out of the Amell cellar passage, wincing as it creaked. She lifted it <em>just<em> enough to peek outside and scan the dark, open area outside Anders' clinic for any signs of danger. She _saw_ nothing, but she was positive she heard the telltale sounds of battle—ringing 'clangs' of metal striking metal echoed from somewhere in the distance, accompanied by agitated shouting. _Someone_ was out there, waging battle with _someone_ else.

"Well, old boy, it's just you and me," Hawke whispered to Riven and drew in a slow, careful breath. "Are you ready?"

Riven nuzzled her arm with his wet nose and let out a muffled bark, followed by a low growl.

Hawke held her breath and slowly crept through the hatch, followed by Riven. She pressed her body against the grimy wall inside the cellar hatch alcove and took a better look around. The sun was long gone, and Darktown had been plunged into inky evening shadows; the only light illuminating the immediate area were the lanterns in front of Anders' clinic. She recognized that the fighting she heard earlier was to the south, but she couldn't tell how far away.

Her heart hammered frantically against her chest as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Hawke tightened the grip on her daggers and crept with slow, silent steps into the clinic. She knelt behind a stack of weathered wooden crates in one of the corners nearest the clinic entryway and carefully peered out from her hiding place. Hawke meticulously scanned every corner and shadow in the clinic for the presence of anyone else. She was a little surprised by her luck so far, but she knew better than to let her guard down now. Acting purely on instinct, she crouched down low and pounced from her hiding place toward the shelter of an old, upturned cot—she realized the severity of her poor choice as her back arched mid-leap. Excruciating, stabbing pain radiated from her cracked ribs. She bit down hard on her tongue to keep from crying out, and gracelessly hit the ground in a clumsy heap. She crawled behind the cot and sat there for a few minutes, holding her head in her hands and taking short, shallow breaths until the pain became bearable again.

As she worked her way along the clinic's inside perimeter, the assassin took care to move far more slowly than she would have liked to keep the pain in check. She kept to the interior wall, slipping through the shadows, until she reached the back room where Anders kept all his supplies. She sheathed her daggers to free up her hands and quickly snatched up a small handsaw, liniments, bandages, splints, a pair of crutches, and a few other supplies Anders hadn't asked for, _just in case_. Looking at her collected pile of supplies, she realized she had a slight problem—she didn't have enough hands to carry everything. She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. Hawke grabbed a musty blanket and stacked the supplies inside, tying the corners off in knots, and slid the crutches through the opening.

"Perfect!" she whispered to herself, quite proud of her quick thinking and resourcefulness. She leaned down to lift the makeshift rucksack, but had barely lifted any of the pack's weight when she felt the pain in her side flare up in warning. Hawke slumped to the floor and leaned her head back against a dusty wall, fighting off waves of nausea and dizziness. Angry tears well up in her eyes; she hated that she was being hindered by her injuries and ashamed that she was unable to soldier through the pain. It made her feel so weak and helpless. She sat there in the darkness, wracking her brain for another plan. Riven whined and nuzzled her shoulder; she put an arm around the mabari and rested her head on his muscular neck.

"That's it!" she exclaimed and looked at Riven with a smile. The mabari tilted his head and blinked curious, brown eyes at her. "You can carry this pack for me, can't you boy?" she asked him, and scratched the fur under his chin. The mabari snuffled in response and nosed the pack of supplies. Hawke was smiling again, relieved to have an alternate plan, and even more glad to be close to returning to Anders.

Her moment of elation was short lived—Riven let out an angry, guttural growl that made her blood run cold. She'd heard that _very_ specific growl enough times to know exactly what it meant. Something was wrong. It was _too_ quiet. _She wasn't alone_. She raised her eyes just in time to see five hulking silhouettes step out of the shadows, into the clinic doorway.

Hawke cursed sharply under her breath and quickly pivoted, dropping behind a wall and unsheathing her daggers. She heard several arrows lodge themselves into the wall where she had been standing mere moments before.

"Well, well, _well_…what have we _here?_" a menacing voice called out. "Pretty one, ain't she, boys?"

"Yeah, maybe we should keep this'un for ourselves," another voice sneered.

"Nah, someone'll pay a nice sum for her, s'pecially in Tevinter," a third male voice said with a jeer.

"That don't mean we can't have a piece fer ourselves, first," said the second voice, and the men erupted in cackles.

_Slavers, of course_, she thought. _They're still here._ _And why _wouldn't _they be?_ She crouched down and let out an enraged snarl, cursing her luck. She _knew_ things were going too well. She was cornered, like an animal, with no way out but through five ogre-sized men—possibly more.

One of the men whistled and called out to her, "C'mon sugar. We know yer in there. We can do this the _easy_ way, or the _hard_ way—yer choice!"

"I'll bet she prefers the _hard_ way!" another of the slavers shouted, mocking her. The men uproariously howled and laughed, amused by their little joke.

Hawke was _livid_ and her hands were trembling, but she was focused and ready to fight for her life—she was under no illusions that she had any other choice. All she could think of was Anders, and what she wouldn't give to have him here now. Were she not injured, the assassin would have set on the slavers with her full fury, but she knew that in her current state she'd be at a great disadvantage in toe-to-toe combat with the slavers. Even at her full strength and having the element of surprise, five-on-one weren't promising odds. She'd have to keep them from rushing her for as long as she could. She pulled out a few throwing daggers, quickly dipped the tips in a vial of venom and rose to her feet. She peered around the wall, let loose one of the throwing daggers with a quick flick of her wrist, and retreated against the wall again. The agonizing howl and 'thud' of a body hitting the ground, followed by convulsive floundering, told her the dagger had found its mark and the toxin would soon do the rest—her lips curled in a satisfied, feral grin.

"Take _that_, you nug-humping bastard," she hissed through clenched teeth, and readied another throwing dagger. Riven impatiently whined next to her, eager to join the fight. "Stay here for now, old boy. If they rush us here, you'll be our little surprise." Riven snorted, and obediently crouched beside his master, all muscle, coiled and ready to strike.

"You _bitch!_ Yer gonna pay for that!" one of the men roared, and she heard the remaining men bickering over who should go first. Their argument was abruptly cut short and she heard the horrible squelching sound of rent flesh, the loud cracking of bones, and a blood curdling scream from several of the men, followed by wet gurgling and an eerie silence.

"What the…?" she whispered to herself, and peeked out from her hiding place. Standing over the mangled slaver bodies, still clutching a bloody heart in his clawed fist was Fenris in his formidable Lyrium Specter form, casting a vibrant light-blue glow over the clinic entrance.

"_Fenris! _Thank the _Maker!_" Hawke exclaimed in relief, more grateful to see the elf than she could ever remember. She stood in the dirty little hovel in the back of the clinic and strode to him in slow, deliberate steps, holding her cracked ribs, which now felt like they were trying to burn a hole through the flesh on her side.

Fenris unceremoniously dropped the heart on the clinic's dirt floor and gave Hawke the most utterly dumbfounded look she'd ever seen him make—it would have made her laugh and tease him mercilessly for it if the circumstances had been different.

"_Hawke?_ What are _you_ doing here? I thought you had already left the city," he said, and narrowed his large, moss-green eyes in confusion. "_Why_ have you not left the city yet?" He paused and looked around, raising one dark eyebrow. "And where is your _apostate?_" he asked, with surly, unabashed disdain. He noticed the way she was favoring her right side and his dark brows furrowed in concern. "Are you hurt? _Did they hurt you?_" he spat.

"It's…no. It's nothing. I was injured before I got here. I'll be fine. As for the rest, it's…well, it's a _long_ story, Fenris," she said with a shrug and an apologetic smile. "I could ask you the same. What are _you_ doing down here?"

"You think I would miss a chance to kill a few slavers?" he asked and issued a sharp kick to one of the corpses at his feet. Fenris shook his head and clucked his tongue at her, "_Honestly_, Hawke. How long have we known each other? You know me better than that," he said with a wickedly amused smirk.

"Good point," Hawke chuckled. "Well, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I was in a pretty bad spot there. You really saved my hide—_thank you_. I owe you one."

"Anytime, Hawke. It sounded like they had some fairly _unpleasant_ plans for you," Fenris said with concern written all over his face. "If I had known it was _you_ they had cornered as their quarry, I would have taken my time _properly_ torturing them," he said with a sneer and a fiercely protective glint in his green eyes.

Hawke smiled, remembering what had ignited their brief but explosive fling all those years ago. Even now, years later, the elf's intense loyalty and ferociously protective nature were unrivaled, save for her own. She thought back to Varric's comment in her estate earlier that day—he was right, though it hurt her pride a little to admit it.

"Why is your _possessed_ _mage_ not here, Hawke?" he said with a glower and a deliberate venomous edge to his question.

"He's in my estate's cellar passage, tending to a group of injured Darktown citizens who were lucky enough to flee from the slavers," she explained. "I requested he stay there in case any slavers found where they were hiding."

"I see," he replied, dryly. "And will you be leaving the city with him soon?"

"Yes, as soon as I get these supplies back to them," Hawke explained and motioned at the pack that Riven was sitting next to.

"Hawke…," he said and trailed off, exhaling a growl of a sigh. "Nevermind."

"Out with it, Fenris. Come on, you've never coddled me. Why start now?" Hawke said with raised eyebrows and a beckoning motion of her hand.

"Fine," he snarled, "Anders is _dangerous_. I think today's _incident_ duly proved that point. I genuinely worry for your safety, Hawke. Do you honestly trust him to protect you, as you do him? Is this _really_ what you want?" Fenris asked, cutting to the chase.

There it was. That's what she expecting from him, though she could tell he was, in his own way, _still _showing remarkable restraint and trying to be polite about it. "Thank you, Fenris. I appreciate your honesty and concern, truly. Please know that I do trust him and this_ is_ what I want—I _love_ him."

The former Tevinter slave grunted and fixed a scrutinizing gaze on her from beneath a messy, silvery fringe of hair. "_Festis bei umo canavarum—_stubborn as always, I see. You're being _foolish_, Hawke," he said with that disapproving scowl that always had an uncanny way of making her feel like she was five-years-old again, being scolded by her elders.

Fenris may be sorely lacking in the tact department, and often infuriating, but Hawke had always understood, respected, and appreciated his raw honesty and directness. Even when she didn't want to hear it, she had to admit to herself that there was _usually_ some bit of undeniable truth to his words. She did have a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve and get lost in her own head at times. Through the years, he had become her grounded voice of reason whenever her emotions got the better of her; she was going to miss that.

"Maybe, but it's _my_ choice," Hawke replied with a quick shrug. "Where you see foolishness and stubbornness, I see love and devotion," she said with a light sigh of frustration through her nose. They'd had this 'discussion' _countless_ times before. "Of all those I know, I think you understand better than _anyone_ what it means to want to protect someone important to you and to fight for a cause you believe in, at _any_ cost," she said, knowing that pointing out their shared sense of vigilance, hinting at what she knew still lingered within him, may hurt him to hear.

It did, and she immediately felt extremely guilty for it, like she'd just kicked a puppy. Fenris' expression flickered with what Hawke recognized as sadness and regret that ran deep, but only for a brief moment before his expression returned to the well-practiced, stoic countenance he always wore. "Yes, I suppose I do. After you leave the city, where will you go?"

Hawke didn't answer right away; she internally debated whether or not she should tell him, and decided it wouldn't hurt to give him partial information. "We're headed to Sundermount to meet Merrill. Depending on how things go with her at the summit, we may meet Isabela in three days' time on The Wounded Coast."

Fenris nodded and straightened himself, flicking drops of blood off his clawed gauntlet with a look of open disgust on his face. "Do you have everything you need?" he asked and cast his eyes on her again.

"Yes," Hawke replied and took a few small steps toward him, fixing her gaze with his. "Fenris, I can't thank you enough…for _everything_. I mean it."

Fenris smiled, a rare genuine smile, and stiffly bowed with one arm held across his chest. "It has been an honor, Hawke. Perhaps our paths will cross again one day," he said in an overly formal but warm tone.

"Perhaps they will, Fenris," Hawke said with a heartfelt smile. She opened her arms and moved to give him a hug goodbye, but stopped herself, remembering the pain his lyrium markings caused him when touched.

Fenris surprised her by pulling her into a strong embrace, taking unusually gentle care to mind her injury, and whispered into her disheveled black hair, "You're one of the best friends I have ever had, Hawke. I owe you my future—I will not forget you."

"Nor I, you, Fenris," Hawke replied and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Have fun hunting the slavers."

"Always do," he answered, with a feral sneer. The two old friends—once lovers—parted ways into the night, though for how long, neither could be sure.

"Let's go home, old boy," Hawke said out of habit and smiled down at Riven, giving him a scratch on the neck. _Home_, she thought. She didn't have one anymore, in the traditional sense, but her home would always be wherever the center of her word was—wherever _Anders_ was. And that was enough for her. Riven padded behind Hawke, with the rucksack of much needed clinic supplies held securely in his massive maw, and the pair slipped back through the hatch leading into the Amell estate cellar.


	4. Mercy

_A/N: This chapter will forever been deemed "The chapter that did not want to be written." Since I started it, it's been cut into two chapters and tweaked so many times that I finally made the decision to simply stop and let it go, lest it never be published. I want to give a big thanks to ElleMullineux for her support and constant prodding to keep at this. As always, thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Since the next one was cut from this, it is also almost complete._

Reviews and PM's are loved and welcome. BioWare owns all rights to Dragon Age and associated characters, lore, places, etc.

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><p><em><strong>Redemption<strong>_

**Chapter 4 – Mercy**

_"This city's full of people who are dead set on ending badly. I don't want to see you end up the same way." - Aveline_

Hawke flew through the cellar passage as fast as her injured ribs would allow, kicking up tiny clouds of dust in her wake. She clenched her teeth and ignored the pain, pressing her body forward faster. Each light footfall on the cellar floor's weathered planks made muffled thumps and creaks, reminiscent of running along an old pier. Riven, her stout mabari, kept pace close behind with the rucksack of clinic supplies swinging to and fro in his teeth. Glass bottles, wooden splints, and metal tools jostled together with loud _clinks_ and _clanks_, alerting the Darktown refugees of the pair's return long before they reached the room.

The sounds of quiet conversation spilled into the cellar passage. A cheerful little tune, softer and sweeter than the other voices, drifted above every other sound. _Sophie_, Hawke thought with a smile. The song was familiar, though Hawke couldn't _quite_ place it. It tugged at long forgotten memories from her childhood. An old Ferelden folk song, perhaps? One thing was certain: it felt curiously out of place in the dim cellar. Still, it was welcome and uplifting, a tiny ray of light. The Champion stepped into the doorway and was greeted with bright smiles and sincere words of welcome. For the first time all day, she actually felt a little like the hero everyone claimed her to be.

Anders leaned against a cloth-draped crate with his legs extended and crossed at the ankles. His face lit up with an adoring, lop-sided grin when Hawke entered the room. His breath caught in his chest. He was so overwhelmed with relief that he thought he might laugh and cry all at once. Sophie was perched atop the crate behind him, swinging her legs and weaving tiny braids into his chin-length flaxen hair. The little girl let out a shrill squeal and leaped off the crate when she saw Hawke.

"Chaaaaampion! You're back! You're back! You're back!" she sang and threw her arms around Hawke's legs, squeezing tight. Hawke's face softened into a smile. She stroked the little girl's dusty head, gently smoothing her baby-fine hair. Anders stood and stepped to his lover's side and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, joining in the warm embrace.

The happy reunion was cut short by the more pressing need to address immediate matters, and the mutual, unspoken understanding that they needed to make their escape from Kirkwall before dawn. They needed to work fast; the sun waited for no one. Not even them. Champion and apostate. Mage and assassin. Fugitives and even refugees in their own right—now the pair became healer and assistant. Hawke had aided Anders in his Darktown clinic countless times in the past ten years, so little instruction or guidance was needed.

Side by side, Hawke and Anders opened the pack and laid out the clinic supplies in rows and small piles. Together, they slipped into a familiar, focused routine and set to work on the refugees. Shared determination and compassion kept them going, though their bodies ached for rest. Hawke prepared poultices and antiseptics, applied tinctures, and mixed a diluted paralysis poison to use as an anesthetic. Anders handled the more involved procedures, setting broken bones and binding them to splints, stitching together open wounds, and using his healing magic on serious internal injuries that may not be able to heal on their own without his care. Both did all that they could before departing.

Amputating poor Tom's leg was, Hawke admitted, one of the hardest things she'd ever had to assist with. It was something she hoped to _never_ have to do again. The elf was remarkably brave, calm, and _silent_ through it all. It was almost unnerving. At one point Hawke thought he may have passed out, but when she looked at him, his eyes were open and his expression resolute and solemn. Tom was far braver than Hawke imagined she would be in his situation. The anesthetic was enough to thoroughly numb his destroyed leg, a small blessing to be sure. Hawke sat behind Tom, holding him in steady arms while Anders used a handsaw to amputate the leg. Between the chunks of gore, the fresh blood, and the sickening sounds and _smell_, the procedure made Hawke's stomach lurch and twist in her gut. She was thankful she hadn't eaten since morning.

As horrible as the amputation was, Hawke reminded herself that it was only a leg. Tom would _live_. She watched Anders at work and thought back to that evening so many years ago when she met Karl—the first and last time. Her heart ached painfully from the memory. _"Can you cure a beheading? The dreams of Tranquil mages are severed—there is nothing left of them to fix,"_ he had said. She couldn't even begin to fathom how difficult it must have been for Anders to grant Karl's last wish. If the tables had been turned—if it was Anders—she didn't think she could have done it. Admitting that filled her with unrelenting guilt and self-loathing. Compared to _that_, removing someone's leg was probably as easy as removing a splinter. Every time she remembered that day, she was humbled by his strength. That was the day she first realized how deep his compassion, kindness, and selflessness ran. He had _no_ idea how much that day had impacted her. One day, she promised herself, she'd tell him.

Anders reserved as much energy as he could for one final bit of healing. Hawke would need her ribs mended before they attempted their escape. She protested at first, but conceded with what the healer noted as surprisingly little resistance, especially for her. Deep down, she knew he was right. She allowed him to spend some of their precious time, and the last of his healing magic, to knit together her cracked ribs.

With all the healing done, or as done as they could with their limited time and supplies, Hawke and Anders bade farewell to the refugees. Anders scooped up Sophie and whispered something secret in her ear that made her giggle and pepper his face with tiny kisses. On their way out, Hawke pressed a note she'd hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper into Moire's palm, and with it some simple instructions. "Find Varric and give him this. He'll offer you all coin and shelter."

Anders smiled through the heartache, pangs of guilt stinging his chest. Even now, she was looking out for Kirkwall's less fortunate. If things had been different…_if only_ things had been different. She would have made a fine viscount and served the people well. _No, don't go there. Not now._ He quickly locked away those thoughts. Dwelling on paths not taken would do neither of them any good right now, and he knew it.

Before they left the relative safety and cover of the cellar, Anders and Hawke took a few moments to consider their escape options, carefully weighing the pros and cons of each. There were three possible routes out of Kirkwall.

The Darktown mines, their first option, was also a notorious labyrinth of dark, twisting tunnels that _may or may not_ lead out to the Sundermount foothills as rumored. That would be the path of least resistance, assuming they could find their way out. Then there were the docks—a route that, if they took, would require them to travel through Lowtown to get there. Once they reached the docks, they would need to "procure" some manner of boat to sail north along the channel and out of the city. It was a toss-up which of these options would take longer. Risk getting lost in the Kirkwall mines for Maker knows how long, or brave Lowtown, the docks, and hope to pilfer a boat? Oh, the wonderful options! The final option, though the most direct route, was also the most risky by far—they escape Kirkwall through Hightown, right under The Order's nose. This option would allow them to slip out Kirkwall's front gate, and straight to the road leading to Sundermount, but it also carried with it the highest risk of serious conflict, or Maker forbid, _capture_.

The only realistic option was clear. After very brief deliberation, they agreed to take their chances with what seemed to be the safest option in light of possible conflict or capture—the docks.

* * *

><p>Kirkwall's two most wanted fugitives slipped through Darktown's narrow alleys with no resistance, keeping to the shadows for cover. Hawke could only hope that they would have similar luck in Lowtown—she wasn't counting on it. Both were alert with weapons at the ready, but they soon realized how unnecessary that was. Darktown looked like an abandoned warzone. It was completely deserted—an eerie ghost town, as silent and devoid of movement as death itself. Anders finally saw, firsthand, what was left of the one place in Kirkwall he ever truly felt accepted. It was a sobering experience. As he walked slowly through Darktown, his expression was grim, his eyes hollow and vacant. Rubble, ash, and bodies littered the crooked dirt passages where only yesterday Kirkwall's impoverished huddled around fires and slept under threadbare blankets.<p>

The slavers who had descended upon Kirkwall's under-city earlier in the evening were now dead, their broken and mutilated corpses strewn about like discarded toy soldiers. Riven pawed at one of the cold corpses and let out high-pitched whine. Anders didn't have to ask who had been through here, playing judge, jury, and executioner to the slavers. The gaping, bloody hole through each corpse's chest told him all he needed to know.

"Fenris?" he asked, with an arched a brow. The elf was thorough, he'd give him that.

"Yes," she whispered. "I'll fill you in later. He…," she paused and pursed her lips. Carefully chosen words were needed. "He really saved my hide earlier." Now was not the time for this discussion, especially knowing how he might react if he knew how close she'd come to being in serious danger. The list of things they would need to talk through later was growing, she noted.

A frown tugged at the corners of Anders' lips and his brow furrowed with concern. "I owe him my gratitude should I ever see him again." He traced his fingertips down her cheek and jawline, resting them under her chin. "I'm sorry. If I hadn't…"

Hawke turned her face away. "_Don't._ Not now," she cut him off, only realizing after the words were already let loose how abrupt her tone had been. Anders quailed at her curt reaction, still holding his hand out toward her, his expression confused and hurt. She bit her bottom lip, cursing her short temper. Exhaustion and hunger were beginning to gnaw away at her patience. "I apologize. I just…Anders, we _really_ need to focus right now and get out of here, alright?" Hawke smiled warmly and brushed slender fingertips across his lips. "We'll have time to talk later, when we're safe. I promise. Deal?"

Anders cupped a hand over hers and pressed his lips to her fingers in a kiss. "Deal."

Hawke fought the aching urge to slip into his arms and seek comfort there, show him she was sorry. But now wasn't the time, and certainly not the place. She'd settle for a smile, instead. "By the way, I meant to tell you earlier. _Nice hairstyle_," she teased and ran her fingers through the tiny braids in his hair. "It's cute. It suits you."

Anders smirked and rolled his golden-brown eyes at her. "It _does_, doesn't it? I was thinking of asking you to do this for me _every_ morning, in fact."

She grinned and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the mental image of lazing about in bed, unclothed and warm beside him, spending the early morning hours weaving tiny braids in his hair. Her cheeks bloomed with warmth at the sweet thought. As simple and fleeting a reverie as it was, it was _nice_. It was something to hold onto. Something to look forward to, one day. "Maybe I will. But _first!_" she raised a finger and tapped the tip of his nose. "First we need to get out of here. I don't fancy being captured by the templars. Do you?"

"Hmm, let me think about that for a moment." He pursed his lips, cast his eyes upward in mock thought, and immediately replied with a smirk. "No. _Not today_, sweetheart. Let's go." Anders grabbed Hawke by the hand and took the lead as they crossed the threshold into Lowtown.

* * *

><p>The silvery moon hung high overhead, bathing Kirkwall's Lowtown in a soft pallor glow. On any other night, Hawke would have regarded the waxing crescent moon as a thing of beauty, but not tonight. No, <em>tonight<em> it only served as a constant reminder that the remaining time before dawn was now measured in a precious few hours. This was now a very real race against time. The finish line was close—their lives and freedom the prize.

Hand-in-hand, Anders and Hawke slowly climbed the sandstone steps leading up into Lowtown. Their planned route to the docks was short and would take them through the lesser traveled alleys, but they could already hear shouting and some manner of commotion in the distance. There was no telling if the voices belonged to the usual drunken revelers wandering home from the Hanged Man, mercenaries looking for their contracted mark, or templars looking for _them_. Anxiety clawed at Hawke's stomach and her heart hammered wildly in her chest—her lips pressed in a thin line and brow knitted in concern. Seeing the intense expression on his companion's face, Anders squeezed her hand and gave her a warm, reassuring smile.

Moving as one, Hawke, Anders, and Riven skirted around the east-most section of Lowtown. They crouched low to the ground, darting from one point of cover to the next. Inky saltwater canals snaked below, separating Lowtown from the docks and giving the air a thick brackish scent. Stacked crates, piles of rubble, and vacant merchant stalls were all that stood between the fleeing fugitives and their would-be captors. The closer they got to their destination—the long stairway leading down into the docks district—the louder the voices became. Hawke steeled herself. It seemed a confrontation would be unavoidable.

Hawke held up a hand, a silent signal that Anders knew well. They paused at their present position atop a short flight of steps between two buildings. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best vantage point they were going to get before entering the docks. Any closer and they risked losing the element of surprise, or worse, stumbling into a situation they couldn't fight their way out of. For now, they would keep their distance, watch, and wait. Hawke pressed her back against the wall and carefully peered around the corner.

A mere thirty yards away, just opposite the stairs leading to the docks from where Hawke and Anders hid in the shadows, was the source of the voices. A group of three city guards were engaged in a heated argument with a larger group of what Hawke guessed were mercenaries. Very agitated, _drunken_ mercenaries, by the sounds of it. Their luck was looking up—they might be able to avoid getting involved in this conflict after all. Hawke crouched down and was whispering an explanation of the situation to Anders when a loud, _familiar_ voice cut through the din, commanding immediate silence from guard and mercenary alike.

"_What_ is going on here?" the guard-captain bellowed. Hawke could hear the telltale edge to the woman's voice that betrayed her barely controlled rage. Her presence and tone didn't ask for respect and obedience so much as _demanded _them.

Anders and Hawke faced each other in wide-eyed realization, whispering in unison. "_Aveline!_"

The wave of relief that washed over Hawke drained out from underneath her almost immediately, leaving her feeling cold and hollow. She slumped against the stone wall, eyes closed and forehead resting on her drawn-in knees. She swore and let out a long, distraught sigh. The last conversation she'd had with Aveline after leaving the Gallows had ended with both women furious and storming off in opposite directions, their respective men in tow.

"_Hawke, you don't have to do this. Let me take him in. He must pay for what he's done."_

"_No. I will not turn him over to the guard. He will atone for what he's done. But he comes with me."_

"_You would let him live free while you've killed and imprisoned scores of other mages for far less? Are you really that weak, Hawke? Or just a bloody hypocrite?"_

"_Don't. Please…."_

"_I don't know who you are anymore, Hawke."_

"_I'm not sure you ever did, Aveline."_

After that, there had been shouting—_lots _of shouting—hurtful words that couldn't be taken back, spiteful glares, damaged loyalties, and wounded prides. To call it unpleasant and volatile was about as accurate as calling a Kirkwall rat a 'cute little mouse.'

Anders didn't have to ask what was on Hawke's mind. He was there when she and Aveline had last exchanged words, if it could even be called that. They had reminded him of a lion and a panther facing off. The emotional tension and raw pain in the air had been palpable. The guard-captain had reluctantly let him go once. He wasn't fooling himself into thinking she'd grant him that courtesy a second time. Anders gently rubbed Hawke's upper back and whispered, "We'll just wait until they leave. Okay?"

Hawke hugged her legs to her chest, nodded into her knees, and leaned into him. She was tired, so very tired. Sleep threatened to claim her with every heavy blink.

What started out as an orderly recounting of events between the guards and mercenaries quickly erupted into a cacophony of loud shouting again. Hawke caught bits and pieces of the argument—something about a criminal getting away because of the other's involvement, both parties trying to pin blame, and demands for lost sovereigns. Anders chuckled and kissed the top of her head, "Some things never change, eh?"

Aveline let out a loud, piercing whistle and roared "One at a time!" in an attempt to silence the bickering. Riven's head shot up. He let out a single excited bark and bolted from their hiding place before Hawke could process what was happening. The mabari had spent the last few years helping Aveline train the Kirkwall city guard. To him, that whistle meant one thing and one thing only: _mutton_. Hawke and Anders simultaneously cursed under their breath and scrambled on hands and knees to peer around the corner.

Chaos ensued. Alarmed shouts and terrified shrieks rang out, replacing the petty argument that took priority mere moments ago. Some of the mercenaries fled or leaped back at the sight of the charging mabari, while others drew their blades. There wasn't a guard in Kirkwall who didn't know Riven, so their reaction was decidedly calmer, but just as confused. Aveline's face flickered from disbelief to rigid suspicion to a glare so severe it would have made weaker men flee. Her keen gaze followed the direction Riven had come running from, spotting Hawke and Anders peering out from their hiding place like a couple of guilty school children. The pair whipped back around the corner, but it was too late. She'd seen them.

Hawke buried her face in her hands and groaned. Anders gripped his staff, readying himself—he had no wish to fight Aveline, but if it came down to that or capture, there was only one choice.

Aveline directed the mercenaries to be on their way, and instructed the guards to continue their patrol on the opposite side of Lowtown, in the bazaar. Hawke and Anders exchanged puzzled glances. Aveline was deliberately clearing out the area. _But why?_ Hawke chewed on her lower lip, her mind racing. After a few minutes had passed and the sounds of retreating footsteps could no longer be heard, she chanced a quick look around the corner again.

"Hawke, I can _see_ you. Do we really have to play this game? Come out," Aveline called out in a clipped, forceful tone.

"_Blast_," Hawke hissed and stood, drawing a deep breath. "Come on," she addressed Anders, and stepped out into the open. Anders still gripped his staff and followed after Hawke.

Together, the fugitive pair closed the distance between them and Aveline. There they stood across from each other with arms folded defiantly in complete silence. Jaws set, eyes locked in a test of wills, Aveline, Hawke, and Anders sized each other up for a few painfully uncomfortable minutes. Like three proud, uncompromising statues standing in the moonlight, no one dared be the first to move or speak. Even Riven sat silently between them, watching. The gentle lapping of seawater against the canal walls was the only sound. Anders noted that this was, somehow, far more uncomfortable than their last encounter with Aveline. If asked earlier, he would have said it wasn't possible. But here they were.

Aveline was the first to break the awkward silence. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her heavy armor clanking as it moved. She kept her strong arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed in an incredulous glare. "I'm not going to ask why you're still here, Hawke. Where are you headed?"

"The docks," Hawke stated evenly, her own arms still crossed defensively against her chest. She was still bitter and bristling from their earlier conversation, and unwilling to let it go.

Aveline's scrutinizing glare shifted from Hawke to Anders and back again. "Go." She spat the word at them and thrust a finger toward the docks. With that, she spun on her heel and stormed away in long, purposeful strides. "And do not return. This is the last time I turn a blind eye to your crimes," she called over her shoulder.

Anders was emotionally moved by her unexpected mercy and goodwill. He stepped forward, one arm extended hesitantly, and called after her, "Aveline? Thank you."

Kirkwall's guard-captain stopped abruptly and spun around, her shoulders shaking with rage. Her face was twisted in something between fury and grief. Hawke fingered one of the daggers at her waist, unsure what Aveline might do, but prepared to defend Anders if it came to blows. The guard-captain lunged at Anders. She raised a gauntlet-clad hand as if to smack him, and though she was trembling from the effort of maintaining her composure, she stopped herself. Instead, she jabbed him hard enough in the chest with her forefinger to make him stumble back. Her face was so close to his that he could see every freckle dappling her anger-flushed cheeks, but he did not turn away.

"I am _not_ doing this for _you_. You selfish _ass_," she snarled. "Go," she commanded again and pointed in the direction of the docks. It was not a request. Hawke bristled beside Anders, but remained silent.

Aveline departed without another word. There were no regretful glances over her shoulder. No apologies. No goodbyes. That was not her way. A shock of coppery hair was the last thing Hawke saw before the Aveline Vallen disappeared around a corner, and out of their lives. Hawke placed a hand on Anders' arm and offered him a sad, apologetic smile. She couldn't find any words that felt right, so she said none. The crestfallen countenance the mage wore moments before was now replaced with steely resolve. He'd known it before, but this really drove the point home. The woman standing tall beside him was all he had left, and she'd given up everything and _everyone_ to take on that role.

In stoic silence, Hawke, Anders, and Riven descended into the docks, their gateway out of Kirkwall—and more importantly, to freedom.


End file.
